Duplicity - A True Story of Crime and Deceit by Paul Goldman (surface ebook reader txt) 📗

that a few months of correspondence mighttranslate into an immediate relationship. I had to consider thatSvetlana was just using me for a plane ticket to America, to abetter life. But could I blame her?

Later that evening, as I found myself aloneagain in the apartment, I thought about what life must be like forSvetlana and for the millions of women like her who shared herstation in life. Most of the Russian men they were meeting werelazy, or alcoholics, or both. These women had always accepted theirlots in life, which meant enduring a dreary existence in Moscowwith no hope of finding anything better.

Then, in 1991, the change in government alsosignaled a change in outlook. Western television, replete withscenes of glamorous women and lavish lifestyles by way of “Dallas”and “Dynasty,” became huge hits in Moscow. Fashion magazinesrevealed women of comparable beauty being treated like goddessesstaring out from Russian newsstands. These women aren't prettierthan me, I imagined them thinking, so why are they treated likegoddesses, while Dimitri, Petrov and Yuri treat me with no morereverence than a housekeeper, hired to clean up after theiralcoholic binges?

Drawn in by the beacon of hope that wasNatasha’s office, these women traded their youth to some unknownforeigner in order to escape their dismal existence in motherRussia. They had to know the odds of finding true happiness wereslim, but they were desperate. Svetlana was desperate. We were bothdesperate. What a mess.

While Svetlana was atwork, I spent the days seeing the sights of Moscow and gettinglost. Walking around town, riding the buses and subways, I began toobserve something interesting. I discovered that there were twodistinct groups of Muscovites: the first was the older generation,characterized by women and men over fifty, who looked like extrasfrom the set of “War and Peace,”all dressed by the same costume designer. Thewomen were bundled in their kerchiefs, and the men wore those“ushankas,” the traditional Russian hats with the floppy ear flapspulled down low. The second was comprised of the younger set whohad not been so beaten down by Communism and entertained certainfancies that their parents had never imagined, including optimism.This younger generation maintained a freshness and hopefulnessabout their future, determined to find their unique place in thefast-changing modern world that Russia had so recentlyentered.

As the week progressed, Ihad dinner with Svetlana each evening at the Italian restaurant. Onthe surface, it looked like everything was moving along fine.Svetlana still flashed her beautiful smile, and, if the KGB reallywas looking, all they would see was two young people in love.Unfortunately, no matter how hard I tried to forget it, I couldn'tshake the memory of the recoil. When we were together, I nevermentioned it, and Svetlana made every attempt to make sure itdidn't happen again, but it was lurking there beside me, drainingme of some of my present joy and churning up doubts about anyfuture with the woman I had traveled forty years and halfway aroundthe world to find.

Four days left. I returned to my apartmentafter the latest dinner with Svetlana and when I turned on theliving room light, all I saw were the gray featureless walls.Slumping down onto my bed, my feelings of depression could not bedenied. Four months of correspondence, during which my initialdisbelief turned into acceptance, then rising anticipation andexcitement, and now, half the week gone, and I felt I had nothingto show for any of it. I decided I had three choices: I couldcontinue to see Svetlana, make her a trophy wife, and take mychances; I could try to find someone else in the very short timeleft to me; or, I could just give up.

Three days left. Determined to do something,I headed to Natasha’s office.

“I’m devastated,” Iconfessed to her. “Svetlana doesn’t want me and I’m not sure I wanther. She’s just doing this to escape and I don’t know what to do.”Natasha looked at me with a motherly, compassionate smile,empathizing with my plight. Her eyes softened and she placed agentle hand on my slumped shoulder. She bit her lower lip as sheseemed to consider a solution. Sensing an idea coming into view,Natasha reached for her card file and pulled out a card with anedge folded down.

“Wait a minute,” shewhispered, and looked over the card. “I’ve got her! Yes, this isthe one for you, Paul.” I leaned forward in my chair. “Her name isTalia and I think you should meet her. She came to the office lastweek. She’s bright, and has the kind of girlish joy I think you’relooking for. And she’s Jewish.” Natasha handed me thecard.

After a moment, I said, “Well, she's not verypretty, but I know it's not going to work with Svetlana. I justknow it. But if you say so, Natasha, I'll meet her. At this point,I've got nothing to lose. Whatever. Call her up, but I'm nevergoing back to that Italian restaurant again.”

“Sure Paul, no problem,”Natasha replied. “There are other places to go.” Natasha picked upthe phone and a short but lively Russian conversation ensued. Sheput the phone down and looked at me with her motherly smile. “It'sall set up. Talia will see you tomorrow afternoon at 2:00 in theRed Square metro station.”

“How will she know me?” Iasked, before leaving her office. Natasha started tolaugh.

“Don’t worry, Paul. She’llfind you. With your sneakers, you really stick out in a crowd.Nobody wears sneakers in Moscow in December!” I looked down at mybright, white Reeboks and couldn't help but chuckle along withher.

“Ha! I never thought aboutthat. Being from California, sneakers are all I own!” My mood wasalready lifting. I left the office smiling and feelingrejuvenated.

That night I couldn't sleep. My doubtsreturned and I started to question everything. Had I overreactedwhen Svetlana rejected my initial advances? After all, her letterswere warm and our phone conversations were always sincere. Maybeher reaction the other night was simply a result of the newness ofit all? Maybe she just wasn't attracted to me? Maybe it was acultural thing? No, I knew. And I also knew that I had neither themoney nor the time to make this trip again. Shit, this was nobetter than what I had back in California, I